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Russians had picked a drop in a run…down black neighborhood； but since he hadn't talked to them after he had found the described drops； he had had no opportunity to ask。
It would be just his luck to get mugged down here some night。
He walked at a regular pace toward the post； not too fast and not too slow。 Just a man who knows where he's going。 He would just reach in while barely breaking stride； get the cigarette pack and keep on walking； right on around the block and back to his car。 Piece of cake。
He slowed his pace as he reached into the post。
It was empty！
Dumbfounded； he stopped and looked in。 There was just enough light ing from the streetlight up on the corner and the windows of the houses to see into the hole。 It was about four inches deep。 Empty！
He walked on。 What had happened？ This had never happened before。 What in hell was going on？
He turned and walked back to the post。 He looked in again。 The hole was still empty。 He looked around on the sidewalk and the grass behind the fence for anything that might be an empty cigarette pack。
Nothing！
It must be here； somewhere； and he just wasn't seeing it。
He was living one of those cold…sweat gibbering nightmares where you are stuck in quicksand and going to die and the rope is forever just inches out of reach。 Finally he realized the cigarette pack truly wasn't there。
Maybe he was being set up。 Maybe the FBI was going to grab him。
Franklin looked around wildly； trying to see who was watching。 Just blank windows。 The wino…still there； sucking from his bottle。 He reached into the hole again； trying to understand。 Someone had gotten it。 God； it must be the FBI。 They must be on to him。 Even now； they're watching from somewhere； ready to pounce。 Prison…he would go to prison。 The wino…an agent…watching and laughing and ready to arrest him。
Terry Franklin panicked。
He ran for the car； a staggering hell…bent gallop down the sidewalk as he tried to look in every direction for the agents closing in。
To arrest him。 He careened into a garbage can and it fell over with a loud clang and the lid flew off and garbage went everywhere。 He kept running。
At the intersection a car slammed on its brakes to the screeching of tires； barely missing him。 He bounced off a parked car but he didn't slow。 He almost broke the key getting it into the door lock。 The engine ground mercilessly and refused to start。 He smacked his head against the steering wheel in rage and frustration。 He tried the ignition again as he scanned the sidewalks； searching for the agents that must be ing。 The engine caught。 Franklin slammed the shift lever into drive and mashed on the accelerator。 Bang！ Into the car ahead。 Holy。。！ Reverse。 Then forward； out of the parking space。 Cranking the wheel over at the corner； he slewed around with tires squalling and stomped on the gas。
Toad Tarkington stared glumly at the remains of a beer in the glass in front of him。 Across the table Rita Moravia was chattering away with the peckerhead attack pilot who had spent the last three days initiating her into the mysteries of the A…6。 Beside Toad sat the bombardier who had been coaching him； ol' Henry Jenks。 Both these mental giants were hanging on every word from Moravia's gorgeous lips。 There she sat； smiling and joking and behaving like a real live normal woman…type female； as she never did around him； damn her！ And these two attack weenies were eating it with a spoon！
The pilot； Toad decided； had a rather high opinion of himself。 He looked and acted like a lifelong miser who has just decided to spend a quarter on a piece of pussy that he knows will be worth two dollars。 His smile widened every time Moravia glanced into his little pig eyes。 If he wasn't careful his face would crack。
This BN； Jenks； wasn't any better。 He obviously hadn't had a good piece of ass since his junior year of high school。 Jenks was telling a funny to the pilot as he watched Rita's reaction out of the corner of his eyes。 〃Do you know a fighter puke's definition of foreplay？〃 After the obligatory negative from his listeners； Jenks continued。 〃Six hours of begging。〃 Rita joined in the ha…ha…has。
Watching these two cheap masturbators in action was a thirsty business。 The waitress caught Toad's hi sign and came over。 〃Four double tequilas； neat。〃 Toad said； and looked around to see if there were any other orders。 The attack weenies were still drooling down Moravia's cleavage as she told an anecdote about something or other。 〃That's it；〃 he told the waitress； who regarded him incredulously。
〃Four？〃 she asked。
〃Yeah。〃
She shrugged and turned away。
The club was still crowded with the remnants of the Friday…night Happy Hour gang。 The married guys had left some time back and a bunch of reservists were drifting in。 Altogether forty or fifty people； ten or twelve of them women； three of whom were still in uniform。 Canned rock music blared from loudspeakers that Toad didn't see。 Only one couple was dancing。
When the waitress brought the drinks she sat them in the center of the table。 Jenks looked at the drinks with raised eyebrows。 〃I'll have another beer；〃 he said。 〃Terrier with a twist；〃 Moravia chirped。 〃Diet Coke；〃 intoned the lecher beside her。
Toad drank one of the tequilas in two gulps。 The liquor burned all the way down。 Ah baby！
Another song started on the loudspeakers； a fast number。 Toad tossed off a second drink； then climbed up on he chair。 He straightened and filled his lungs with air。 〃Hey； fat girl；〃 he roared。
Every eye in the place turned his way。 Toad picked the nearest female and leaped toward her with a shout； 〃Let's dance！〃 Behind him his chair flew over with a crash。
And oh； that woman could dance。
7
The bedroom lights were on in the second story of the town house when Terry Franklin parked the car。 He turned off the ignition and headlights and sat behind the wheel； trying to think。
He had driven around for an hour and a half after his panicked departure from the drop； craning to spot the agents he felt sure were tailing him。 At one point he had pulled over and looked at the damage to the front of his car。 The left front headlight was smashed and the bumper bent from smacking into that car when he tried to get out of that parking space too quickly。
A dozen times he thought he spotted a tail； but the trailing vehicle usually went its own way at the next corner or the one after。 A blue Ford with Pennsylvania plates followed along for half a mile until he could stand it no longer and ran a red light。 His panicky wanderings back and forth through the avenues and traffic circles of downtown Washington seemed like something from a drug…induced nightmare； a horrible descent into a paranoid hell of traffic and stoplights and police cars that refused to chase him。
Franklin sat now behind the wheel smelling his own foul body odor。 His clothes were sodden with sweat。
Lucy and the kids were home。 He tried to e up with a lie for Lucy as he scanned the street for mysterious watchers and people sitting in cars。
How long could he live like this？ Should he take the money he had and run？ Where could he run with the FBI and CIA looking for him？ He didn't hav